


I Care What You Think

by GoldViolets



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldViolets/pseuds/GoldViolets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is a succubus if she's ever seen one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Care What You Think

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taewho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taewho/gifts).



> I have a serious problem. I'll admit it. I have a crush on Blurryface. So I wrote a fic about it. Josh in this story is more Blurryface!Josh, who is a much quieter version of Tyler's blurryface. I hope you like!

He was the leach in my life. He was the parasite I had to deal with. I would have rather he fed on blood. But he, he feed on something more painful.  
I had made the mistake of letting him into my home. And he spread like ink, staining everything like his neck and hands. Everything he touched lingered with his aura. In my years I never meet anyone who stunk so much of depression. Or anger. Maybe Josh.  
That's how I had met him. Through Josh, I mean. Not through depression. But I can never be sure. Blurryface took after Josh, much more angry and ruthless though. Josh, with his red stained eyes and hair was much quieter, slightly kinder, but just as manipulative. At least I didn't live with him. I'd rather that.  
He was charming. At first. Then it grew into that deadly charming, like a snake trying to entrance it's food before striking. He sang about me, and spoke about me like I was sweet honey. That was Tyler.

BlurryFace. 

I'm hyperventilating.  
I remember that. And I'm hiding in my own bathroom of my own apartment that I pay rent for. And I'm terrified. He knocks at the door, softly, because he knows I know he's there. He won't leave. He doesn't ever leave.  
I don't move. I freeze and hold my breath. He knocks again. Harder this time and says my name, his mouth close to the door.  
"Maggie. Come out."  
His voice is monotonous as ever, yet all too frightening. I tremble harder.  
"I know you can hear me."  
I feel like a cornered animal.  
I hear him sigh, irritated.  
"You always do this."  
"Me? I always do this? Are you fucking serious?" I question and I realize I'm crying again. But I can't stop talking.  
"You're fucking crazy! You're fucking psycho!" I yell, even though I can't breathe. I'm only this courageous when there's something in between us. He doesn't respond, but I know he's listening.  
"You love me." He said. He's confident. Never one to back down to a challenge.  
"Stockholm Syndrome is a bitch."  
There was a pause. And I breathe in, as he does in unison on the other side of the door.  
"I want you out. I want you to go." I admit, quietly. "I don't want you here." I'm shaking. I feel faint.  
The pause continues. But I know the answer. I can hear his smirk.  
"I'm not going anywhere."  
I jerk the door open. And when I walk out I see him leaning against the wall, beside the door. His face is blank, like usual, but I can feel the ghost of the smirk. I don't hesitate, I cross the floor to the closet and open it, yanking out suitcases and dufflebags from the top shelf. I'm panicked and crying and I feel him watching me and almost lose my resolve. Almost.  
I'm yanking open drawers and pulling clothes out of closets, not caring what I'm grabbing at. I'm sobbing and I can't see.  
"One of us is leaving. If you don't go I will. I swear to God."  
"You're not going anywhere." he says, stepping forward to grab my arm. I shake out of his grasp, and in a instinctive move, shove him back. He gets his footing quick. His gaze hardens.  
"Don't fucking touch me! I hate you! What don't you get?! Why don't you understand that I want you dead?!"

It happens quick. He doesn't stop himself.

"I'm sorry. You made me mad."  
I hold my burning eye, right where he hit me. I drop the bag and the shirt I held in my hand, a Twenty One Pilots shirt. I realize that I'm not upright anymore, I'm leaning on the wall. His hit throwing me off balance. He focuses his red eyes on me and watches as I slid down the wall crouching down into a ball. He doesn't apologize again.  
When he reaches out to touch me again I flinch. He doesn't seem phased. I realize he is not consoling me, but checking me over, gently using his stained hand to brush my own away from my injured eye. He trains his eyes on that, even though I'm once again hyperventilating and sobbing in his hands. He doesn't say anything but he forces me up, his hands on my wrist. I don't squirm away in fear he'll do it again. He wraps his arm around me and brushes the bags and clothes into the closet with his foot.  
"Maggie," He groans.  
He walks me over to the bed and lays me down, tucks me in. He crotches next to me, getting to my eye level. "It's time for you to sleep. Go to sleep."  
My tears stain the pillow. I'm laying on his side of the bed. "I want to go to Josh's." Feeling like a kid crying to their parent. My parents never hit me though.  
"Go to sleep. You're tired. You're not going to Josh's house."  
He turns the light out. I'm not tired. I'm not tired. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to lay on his side of the bed. I want to go to Josh's or Zack's. I want him out.  
It's an hour later before he crawls onto my side of the bed. He doesn't touch me. He turns away from me and sleeps. I roll over to the edge of the bed and try not to cry. It's hard.  
I pick up his beanie, it's on my floor, on my side of the bed because technically they're both my side of the bed. Because I payed for it. Like I pay for these four walls of the apartment I'm a prisoner to. I pick up his beanie, red like his eyes, and I sob. I sob into it. And I know he can hear me.


End file.
